


Gallant Hearts

by imaginary_golux



Category: Cadfael Chronicles - Ellis Peters
Genre: First Kiss, Huddling For Warmth, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 10:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17959022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: For the February Ficlet Challenge prompt "Huddling for warmth."Yves and Olivier are stranded in a snowstorm.Beta by my Best Beloved, the glorious and very gallant Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw.





	Gallant Hearts

Going out hunting wasn’t actually a foolish idea, Yves tells himself. It’s been a startlingly warm autumn, and no one - not the wise women in the village, not the monks in the nearby monastery, not even Yves’ chamberlain, who likes to predict disasters regularly - had thought that the coming week would be any more than mildly chill.

They were all unfortunately _wrong_ , but that is no one’s fault.

He peers out through the narrow cave entrance to see that the snow is still blowing almost sideways, shivers, and retreats back to the little fire Olivier has managed to light. “I do not think we will be able to find our way home tonight,” he says.

Olivier looks up from coaxing the fire along to smile, crooked and sweet. “I had rather guessed as much, my gallant,” he says. “With a little luck and the grace of God, by tomorrow the storm will pass; and for tonight, we have our bedding at least, and a fire; I think we will be well enough.”

Yves nods and settles beside Olivier, pulling their heap of blankets closer, and together they figure out the best way to arrange them so they can both stay warm. They end up sort of curled together beside the fire, two blankets cushioning them from the cold stone of the floor and two wrapped around them like a child’s swaddling clothes, keeping them close together so their own bodies’ heat can warm each other. Lying face to face becomes uncomfortable after a few minutes, and Olivier huffs a tiny laugh and squirms around within their odd cocoon until his back is to Yves, fitted against him like two spoons together.

Yves surprised everyone, himself included, when he finally reached his full height: he is taller now than his uncle and all but one of his uncle’s knights, and that one is a Norseman. He is taller than Olivier by a good handspan, and broader across the shoulders, too. Olivier chuckles as they settle into place. “You are as good as a bread-oven to lean against, my gallant.”

Yves laughs and tucks his cold nose into Olivier’s hair. “High praise indeed,” he says.

“Alas that you do not create fresh bread,” Olivier teases, and Yves laughs harder.

“Create, no,” he says. “Destroy, now…”

“Truly you are the terror of the bakery,” Olivier agrees, and gathers the hand that Yves has slung across his waist to his chest, cradling it close so Yves’ cold fingers begin to warm.

“‘Tis not a terribly heroic epithet,” Yve says, distracted by the strong, slender fingers wrapped around his own.

“I have faith that you will someday earn a better, my gallant,” Olivier says, sounding sleepy - it has been a long day, and Yves is also weary, and the warmth of the fire and of his dearest friend cradled to his chest are beginning to lull him to sleep.

“That alone would suffice me,” he murmurs, not quite aware of what he is saying, and Olivier goes very still against him, his fingers suddenly tight around Yves’ hand.

“That alone?” Olivier says, softly, barely audible over the crackling of the fire and the howling of the wind outside. “To be my gallant, alone?”

Yves takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he is a man grown and a blooded warrior, and says, “That alone would suffice me well, and I would desire no fairer title.”

“Ah,” says Olivier, almost thoughtfully, and then he squirms around in their blanket cocoon again, until he and Yves are nose to nose. His breath is very warm against Yves’ lips. “Yet there are so many fairer titles I would give you, my gallant.”

Yves’ heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. “Are there so?” he asks, and hopes his voice is not shaking - or if it is, it can be blamed on the chill of the air and the stone.

“My heart,” says Olivier gently. “My darling. My dearest love.”

“Such names I will wear gladly, if you speak them,” Yves says. “And - if you will bear such names from my lips, too.”

“I will,” Olivier says simply, and leans forward, closing the last inch between them to press their lips together in a kiss.

They sleep very warm that night, despite the snow.


End file.
